


Measure the Man

by Anonymous



Category: Strike Back
Genre: Character Study, Competency, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Project Dawn, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-14 18:02:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15394353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Michael Stonebridge isn't sure what to make of Damien Scott. He brings with him more questions than answers, and his motivations seem dubious at best. Strange then, with all those questions hanging between them, that Michael's never worked quite this well with anyone else.(Stop gaps and fill-ins for the first two episodes of Project Dawn, told through Michael's perspective as he tries to get a handle on just who is Damien Scott.)





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm making this a "choose not to warn" experience. I will say that in this particular narrative, I don't delve into anything too graphic, but I do use the type of language reflected on the show.
> 
> If you haven't seen the first two episodes of Project Dawn, this will make no sense whatsoever. Hopefully it will make sense to those who have. ;)
> 
> It isn't a direct narrative of the entire first two Project Dawn episodes, but it does go into Michael's head and explores his perspective throughout a majority of those events. It has a bit of a staccato style that slows down and delves in deeper at certain junctures.
> 
> I'm working my way back into fanfic writing with this one. I imagine this will be hit or miss for some, but it's a small fandom and I'm hopeful those few of you who find and read this will be forgiving. Getting into Michael's head for those two episodes felt like a good challenge to take up in order to get back into the swing of things. I enjoyed the exercise, and hope some of you will too.

**Measure the Man (Prologue)**

* 

_"You want my help finding Porter? I want cash, and a lot of it."_

_– Damien Scott_

*

It doesn't fit. After meeting him. After watching him fight. Michael Stonebridge wasn't certain what it was that motivated Damien Scott. He had no idea if whatever motivated him was good or bad.

But he was certain it wasn't money.

 

*

**Part 1**

*

 

Michael watches him, as they make their way to the HERC, but Scott's face gives him nothing. Nothing as they strap themselves in. Nothing through takeoff. And nothing, all the way back to London. 

Inscrutable makes for good soldiers. So there's that.

Scott's face had blanked and hardened when Michael first mentioned Porter. So there's also that.

The file Michael had read indicated Scott had been a good soldier. Once.

He and John Porter had been mates, back in the day.

How any of it fits together to form the man in front of him…

Michael hasn't a clue.

 

*

 

Damien Scott meets Section 20 with a swagger. Michael points out who he is to the team with a simple, "This is Damien." 'Sargent Scott' sounds too formal for the man he just yanked out of a seedy backroom sinkhole, but 'Damien' abruptly feels too familiar. Too friendly. Out of place.

No one else seems to notice and the introductions continue as Grant, being Grant, gets down to business.

Scott's face doesn't blank or harden when Porter is mentioned this time. He remains cavalier and arsehole-ish, dismissively handing Latif's file back to Grant with another resolute demand for money, playing every inch the back-hole mercenary he obviously is.

But he'd looked at it. The file. He had looked at it first. Thoroughly ticking his eyes to each corner before handing it back.

Scott's background indicated he had a photographic memory.

And there's something else. Something in the way he stands, and moves.

He's here for something, something specific, and it isn't cash.

 

*

 

Outside the bar, after drinking to Porter, Michael finds Damien standing motionless near the kerb. The sounds of the city hanging heavily overhead.

Dropping his hands loosely into his pockets, Michael steps to his flank. Staring into the distance he keeps himself as motionless as Scott, clear and calm despite the thrum of violence he feels under his skin. A mere membrane restraining the need for something physical. To hit, to run, to fight.

John Porter is dead, and it makes no fucking sense.

The execution plays in his mind on repeat, as it has since it happened.

_… sad fucking pricks!_

He blinks, slowly, and sees Scott has turned his head, eyes watching his.

"You were mates. You and Port… you and John," Michael says directly. "Did you stay in touch over the years?"

Scott's look tells him he knows the question is being asked to see what Michael can gage in his face, and for little else.

There's nothing much there, but Scott's eyes are heavy. It's something.

"Yeah," he says with a dip of his chin. "Yeah, we stayed in touch. Well, more or less." He flicks a cigarette down to crush under his heel. "Is that really what you wanted to know, Sargent Stonebridge?"

"What happened to Stonehenge?"

Scott breathes out through his nose, quick and derisive. "You only get that kind of clever out of me once."

"Now that, I'm sure is true."

Scott flips him off without looking, lifting his finger as he lights another cigarette. Then he turns away to leave.

"Oi, are you squared?" Michael calls after. "Did the colonel issue your accommodations?"

"Yeah," Damien says, turning to walk backwards briefly and effortlessly. "Your _captain_ took care of me. I'm set."

Michael doesn't like the way he says 'your captain.' Like Damien already knows things about him that he shouldn't.

 

*

 

He can't go home to Kerry after that. Not yet. He takes to the punching bag instead, while replaying John's death in his head.

_You cowards. You make me fucking laugh!_

_… sad fucking pricks!_

What is he missing?

 

*

 

It stays with him. That question. And the violence under his skin. Even as he wakes early in the attempt to run it off.

They should have been able to save John. They'd had his location. How did Latif get ahead of them? They had the intel. They should have been there.

That they weren't makes Michael feel stretched out on a string. Disconnected. Suspicious.

Death is unavoidable in their line of work, but… 

There's laughter when he enters his home.

His _home._

Damien Scott is talking to his wife while she laughs along with him, sitting politely and vulnerably at their kitchen table in her robe. She's gracious and affable, and everything Michael loves about her, going so far as to offer breakfast to further their hospitality.

Scott reads the look on Michael's face with pinpoint accuracy, and turns Kerry down smoothly before following Michael into the hall. He is not nearly as surprised as he pretends to be when Michael slams him into the wall.

He is, however, annoyingly unthreatened, seemingly just waiting for Michael to get it out of his system before he pulls a thumb-drive from his pocket and asks Michael for his laptop.

 

*

 

"We have to show this to Section 20 as soon as possible," says Michael, still staring at the screen, watching the code Porter had worked out with Scott play out before him.

"Your call, buddy," Damien answers, with a gruff pat to Michael's shoulder even as he stands and steps away. "They're your team."

"You're here at Section 20's behest. Why didn't you take this directly to Colonel Grant?"

Damien shrugs, drawing out a cigarette that he wisely doesn’t light. "We going or what?"

Michael stands. There's no claim for money this time. No swagger, no smirk. Michael wants to feel bolstered by that somehow, but doesn't. The character of the man in front of him is hazy at best. Michael's okay with ambiguity. He just hates feeling like he doesn't know where to step.

"Wait here while I change," he says.

"Your castle, buddy. I'll be right where you left me when you're ready."

"Cheers for that, then."

 

*

 

"Wait here," he tells Scott again, once they're back to headquarters. "Let me do the talking."

"Like I said, your team, your call, bud."

Michael doesn't like the way he says it. As though not sharing the intel is some viable option. As though there'd be some reason to not share it at all.

"Besides, they probably wouldn't want to hear it coming from me," Damien expounds with a grin. "It's almost like they don't trust me."

Michael snorts. "Can't imagine why."

Damien ignores that, dropping into a chair beside the table outside the glass doors. "You though. They trust you. Always. I can tell. The good soldier."

It almost sounds like a compliment. Michael pauses for a beat as Scott taps his feet against the carpet, fidgeting oddly. "They may not trust you," he says, "but Porter did—obviously. Didn't he?" He's asking, once again, mostly to gage what expression it brings to the surface.

Damien surprises him by actually answering without cracking a joke. "Yeah," he says. "Porter trusted me." He nearly sounds regretful about it. Like he thinks that measure of trust should have paid off for John more than it had. It's too similar to how Michael feels about his own ability to provide John the backup he'd needed.

Too little. Too late.

 

*

tbc


	2. Part 2

*

Part 2 

* 

 

For no reason whatsoever—at least that's what Michael tells himself—halfway through the flight to Delhi, he moves to sit next to Damien. The sun is glaring through the tiny unshaded window by Damien's head and his eyes are closed. 

But he isn't asleep. Of that, Michael is certain.

"You want something, bud?" Damien asks without moving a muscle.

"Before he went undercover, Porter updated the files with all the available information about Latif and your work with him back in 2002. He knew you were the only person who would be able to identify Latif besides himself."

Scott cracks an eye open. "And?"

"And I'm wondering why he didn't mention you before—why he allowed you to remain some obscure contact for us to find buried in a file."

"And you think I have an answer for that?"

"I think it might have been nice to have you on hand before things when pear shaped."

"That's touching—"

"And the code he used. It seems somewhere along the way, he considered your involvement inevitable. What I can't figure, is why."

Scott glances around the plane then closes his eyes again, feigning boredom. "You know Porter. Grasping at straws for backup plans sometimes because you have no other choice—that was his thing. He worked with what he had in front of him, and kept his options open, up to and including down-and-out old military buddies. Every useful thing, just in case, you know?"

"Perhaps."

Damien opens his eyes. "Good as Porter was, it's a tough job to do alone. Sometimes grasping at straws is all you get. And if I read you right, you know that as well as he did. Obviously, I was his Hail Mary. Can't blame Porter for throwing one, situation he was in, can you?"

Michael can't, and doesn't, but he doesn't say it. "And you?"

"Me?"

"What do you get out of this, Scott?"

Damien cracks a smile, whatever brief moment of sincerity or sharpness that might have crept up in his demeanor dissipating quickly. "Don't look at me, bud, I'm just here for the money."

"No, you're not."

 

*

 

By the time they land in Delhi, Scott is back to playing the arsehole. Swagger, smirk, and flirt in place.

"You actually going to be able to do this?" Michael asks, handing him his fake identity papers with skepticism. "I mean, you were actually Delta Force once, weren't you?"

"Among other things." Scott grins, ignoring the dig. "Besides, all I really have to do is point and stare if Latif shows up, right? Shouldn't be that hard."

Behind Damien's back, Sinclair throws Michael a dubious look.

"Don't worry, Major," Damien responds without turning around. "I'll make you proud. Believe me, I can point and stare like no one you've ever seen."

Sinclair frowns, lifting an eyebrow.

For the first time in what seems like eons, Michael feels the desire to smile. He doesn't. But he notes the sensation.

 

*

 

They're seconds into their stay at the Royal Lotus Hotel when Scott abandons him for his pussy prowl. Michael wants to believe Scott has designs of being useful. He wants to believe that Scott having trusted him with his and Porter's code had been an indication that he was truly invested in this mission, and is going to be more useful than Grant or Sinclair are giving him credit for.

He wants to believe that Porter having trusted Scott—Hail Mary or not—means something. Anything.

But he's not counting on it.

He approaches the mission as though he's standing on the tip of that spear alone. Reviewing coms set-up and wiring video access to the crib. It's a useful mindset. Self-reliance. Not trying to worry too much about who has your back. Focus on the job. Compartmentalize.

In the midst of it, however, he can't helping wondering if maybe Porter had worried about who had his back. He'd had his reasons in the past to doubt, after all. So maybe it did mean something that when given the chance, he'd trusted his final threads of intel to Damien Scott. Or maybe he'd just been covering his bases.

Michael imagines himself in the same circumstance, thinking through whom he would trust with any potentially vital intel, and who he would trust to decipher it.

Section 20 comes to mind. It's the obvious answer. His team. His supporters. His superiors. Not to mention the chain of command—those above him who would have the power and ability to do what needed to be done with the info.

It begs the question – why hadn't that been obvious to John?

Why Damien?

It makes no fucking sense.

 

*

 

It's about then that all hell breaks loose, and Michael has very little time to think about what should and shouldn't make sense.

After he gets Kate out of the hotel, he's prepared to be alone in hell. Then he hears the terrorists talking worriedly about someone upstairs having shot at them—killed some of them—and he thinks he just may not be in hell alone after all.

"Good man," he says quietly, as he kneels on the lobby floor amidst the rest of the hostages. _Good man_.

 

*

 

Grant doesn't want him to break cover, but when Michael sees his moment to slip away in the chaos he does. He feels freer once he's out of the lobby, sparing only a twinge for the guilt at the hostages left behind there. He has a better chance of helping them now anyway. Once he finds Scott.

That bit happens faster than he expects.

"Fuck me," Scott says, when they find themselves pointing weapons at each other over railings in a stairwell.

Michael echoes the sentiment. "Fuck." Though he feels immediately easier once Scott makes his way down, taking post at his elbow. He doesn't dwell on it.

"Where the fuck you been?" says Scott.

"You know, saving lives, shooting bad guys." The light tone comes out of him on instinct.

"How many numbnuts you taken out?"

"Two. You?"

"Three."

"Huh. That's good. That leaves 11. You want to shoot some more?" Michael asks.

"If I have to."

Scott's answer gets an extra beat of Michael's attention. It's nothing to linger on, particularly. He'd just been expecting something different. A 'just point me to the bad guys' or a 'fuck yeah' at minimum. Not that Michael had any evidence to believe Damien bloodthirsty, but the show of restraint is welcome somehow. It solidifies Scott in some way. Moves him from the transient form he's been in Michael's mind to something more clear and knowable. Professional.

No posturing or questionable intent. Just focus. Competence. And a willingness to do what needs to be done.

When Michael tells the colonel he's just doubled their chances of defusing the IED, it feels like nothing but the truth.

"First things first," he tells Grant next. "I have two hostages I have to get to safety."

"Hey, you two know a way out of here?" Scott interrupts upon hearing this, looking at the bellhop and the tourist.

"Yes, downstairs," answers the bellhop, gesturing to make his point.

"Awesome," Damien affirms calmly, then speaks to Michael. "Hey, buddy, I got to go back upstairs though."

Michael frowns. "Why?"

"The girl I met in the bar."

"You got to be kidding me." For a brief moment, Michael thinks of revising his assessment.

"Not like that," says Damien.

 

*

 

The fact that they are captured mere moments later might have been taken in retrospect as a sign for the type of luck they'd have together, but Michael wouldn't think so. He was the type of soldier that looked at possibilities over predestination. He would eventually lay odds that Scott felt the same.

What he really wants to know, is why, with the supposed Latif right in front of him, the man he's supposed to identify, Damien Scott hadn't said a word.

 

*

tbc


	3. Part 3

*

Part 3

*

 

Latif—the man supposedly supposed to be Latif—wastes little time getting down to it. Shooting the bellhop. Ripping the communications link out of Michael's ear. Then pointing a gun in Damien's face. 

"You have been hiding people."

"You're out of your mind," Scott responds.

"What about the woman you met in the bar?" presses Latif. Supposedly Latif. A precision to his interest that indicates the woman is something beyond an unaccounted for hostage.

"Which woman?" says Damien.

Michael turns at that, keeping his hands on his head in deference to the gunmen. "You were there what, five minutes?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"With you in the lift," Latif—probably Latif—interrupts.

"Oh, her," says Damien. "Yeah, I don't know where she is."

"But you have hidden her," insists Latif. Possibly Latif. "You will take us to her."

"What for?" Scott says derisively.

The response is immediate. One of the terrorists jams Damien in the ribs.

"Fuck," says Damien, coughing through a groan as he folds back against the wall. "Fuck you."

Michael watches—reading Scott's body language. He thinks he's okay—he took the hit well—he just doesn't know how long that will last.

 

*

 

"At least we found Latif," Michael says casually as they're directed by gunpoint up the stairs. "That is Latif, isn't it?"

"Uh… yeah," Damien answers.

Michael frowns as his doubt is confirmed. "What do you mean?"

"Porter was really the one who dealt with Latif. When I saw him, he was really far away, it was kind of dark."

Michael glares. It's like listening to an eight-year-old lie about schoolwork. Scott's not even trying. "You never saw Latif, did you?"

"Not really, no."

"You fucking prick."

Scott seems unmoved by Michael's ire.

The revelation brings all those missing pieces Michael has been stewing about back to the forefront. If not to identify Latif—and who else could the man in front of them be?—what the hell was Scott doing here? Why put himself in this situation at all?

And how had their intel fucked up enough to indicate that Scott could, in fact, identify him? Porter had reviewed the files on Latif extensively. He'd provided half the information in there. Why would Porter indicate Scott had seen Latif when he would have known that he hadn't? Or, if it wasn't Porter who added that bit of intel, why hadn't he corrected it when he'd reviewed everything? Porter was thorough. He wouldn't have fucked up something like that.

It doesn't fit. What the hell is he missing here?

Then Latif—the man very likely to be Latif—is counting down to Michael's death, and he has to put that particular frustration aside for the moment.

 

*

 

When Latif—or whoever—puts a gun in Michael's face and threatens to shoot him if Damien doesn't give up the location of the woman he's been hiding, it's amusing that Latif—or whoever—thinks they're friends.

More amusing is Michael buying into himself, despite the subterfuge he'd just learned about.

"Don't tell him, Scott."

"No worries, buddy," Damien shrugs casually. "I really don't know where she is."

 

*

 

When an opening presents itself—half contrived, half happenstance—they take it and Michael doesn't, in fact, end up getting shot in the face.

They fight well together, the two of them. Efficient. Economic. Reading each other's moves without speaking. It's a useful dynamic.

Whatever else Michael thinks about the prick beside him and his motivations, when you're working four moves ahead as a solider, it's a relief when the mate at your back is right there with you, and can turn on a dime when needed.

"You hit?" he calls when he hears Scott's grunt in the midst of ensuing gunfire.

"A ricochet," Scott answers with a shout. They're already moving in the same direction, with the same plan. A little girl attaching herself to Scott despite the blood running down his leg as they rush out onto the balcony. A woman with them as well.

"Right behind you, Scott. Right behind you!" Michael assures, kicking a chair in front of the door behind them just to buy them every last second he can.

 

*

 

Damien is limping badly by the time they make it to some semblance of temporary safety. The pain lines are deepening on his face and Michael can tell he's holding his breath to keep his voice in as he finally sets the little girl down. 

"Better let me look at that, Scott."

 

*

 

There's more damage from the bullet than Michael was hoping to see. The glare of the washroom's lights hide nothing. It may have just been a ricochet but the bullet is still in, lodged deep. Near the artery.

Deaths are unavoidable in their line of work, but Michael would really rather not lose Damien now. Prick or not. There's more here than meets the eye. And if Michael will never get the chance to get answers again…

"Since these might be your last few moments on earth, you want to tell me about Iraq?"

"The cradle of civilization? Where writing and the wheel were invented?" Damien deflects, weak humor mixed with pain. Michael isn't sure if Scott is trying to distract Michael from the question, or to distract himself from what Michael is doing to his leg. Either way, it isn't working. Damien grips the edge of the bathtub as more of his blood leaks down to the tiles.

"About your dishonorable discharge, you tosser." Michael withdraws the knife briefly, looks at Damien's pained face, and goes for sincerity in the bluntest way possible. "I'm assuming you're a damn good soldier, seeing as you're not dead, and neither are those two girls out there."

"Oh wow, paying me compliments now?"

For a moment, Michael thinks that's all he'll get, but it isn't. Scott obviously believes in some semblance of reciprocity. He drops the bluster, and the story he tells about being hemmed up for his discharge is compelling, even if Michael would prefer not to believe it.

It doesn't seem to be something Damien's abandoned to the past either. From every indication, finding whomever jammed him up is a present and driving interest. Not what one might expect to find in a disillusioned and dispassionate man yanked out of a Malaysian brothel in the course of dedicatedly pursuing a career in fixed fights.

Of course, Michael already knew at least half that persona was bullocks.

What he needs to know now is how this connects to Porter and Section 20, and to whatever the hell Damien is doing here in the first place. If it connects at all.

But _shit_ , it must. At the very least, he thinks Scott thinks it must. Maybe Porter had too.

He puts the rest of those questions aside as the tip of his knife finds the bullet, leveraging it to the surface so he can pull it free. He keeps his hand pressed to Damien's leg, ready to pinch down on the artery if it turns out it did get nicked. "Belt, slowly," he tells him.

Damien complies, loosening the cinch around his thigh, and to the relief of both, it looks like he'll live through this. For a while longer anyhow.

 

*

 

They're back in sync with each other when they question Iman Zubedah, both running on the same wavelength. 

When the name _Mahmood_ twigs at something extra dangerous in Scott, he allows Michael to pull him back to center with two measured pats and a grip on the shoulder.

It feels suspiciously like trust.

 

*

 

As they continue their sweep, their luck holds even. They find a body and a phone. Good paired with bad. It will be useful to get in contact with the crib, but when Scott rolls the body over, he curses, more upset than Michael expects. "Damn it." 

"Do you know her?"

"Yeah." He sounds heavy. "It's the other girl I met in the bar." Scott picks up the phone she was carrying and holds it up. "She meant to give me that."

Getting to his feet slowly, he hands the phone to Michael and says no more about it.

 

*

tbc


	4. Part 4

*

Part 4

*

 

Having contact with the Section is encouraging, even though it confirms for Michael what he already knows—that they're running out of time.

Still, the intel is welcome. At least on one point he can stop shooting in the dark. Iman Zubedah is Mahmood. Mahmood is Iman Zubedah.

Whoever Latif is or isn't, at least they have that much.

And, of course, because Michael is beginning to feel they just might be getting on top of things, the situation immediately turns into a clusterfuck.

Zubedah runs.

He and Scott split to find her. Never ideal, but necessary. Michael doesn't second-guess it, even when he gets back to the stairwell to find it abandoned. No Zubedah. No little girl. No Scott.

"Shit," he says, and pulls out the phone Scott's bar-find had provided them. The call connects before it even rings. Colonel Grant ready and standing by as always. "Mahmood's gone. So is Scott," he reports. 

"Scott is expendable. She is not," Grant tells him immediately.

It's a fact.

Michael hasn't ever doubted this. Mission first. Lives at stake. Focus on the primary objective.

Scott, whatever the hell else he is, is clearly a professional. He would accept the same. This is the risk they choose to take as soldiers. And there are good reasons they choose to take it.

And yet, something about it doesn't feel right.

Michael can't articulate it, and there is nothing he could do about it if he could, so he lets his mind retreat into probabilities and tactical layouts like he should, like the soldier he is. Where would Zubedah go? If she was captured by Latif—which seems more likely by the moment—where would Latif take her?

"Latif knows the assault's coming. He must have an escape route," Michael tells Grant.

"Then find it."

"Copy that."

He heads immediately for the laundry, the only other escape route he knows.

 

*

 

It was a good call.

Michael spots Latif and Zubedah, and a few of the terrorists besides. As a bonus, he also discovers he's low on ammo. Three rounds. "Shit."

The good with the bad.

Wherever Scott is, he hopes he's having better luck.

 

*

 

Michael's waiting for his moment when he hears Zubedah's voice. "Why are we stopping?" she asks.

Latif's reply is beyond what Michael can translate, but he's pretty sure he grasps the key words— _wait_ and _explosion_.

 _Primary objective_ , he reminds himself. Don't focus on what you can't currently do anything about.

And then he goes for it.

It's a roll of the dice for a minute, after the unexpected buzzing of the phone gives away his approach, and the ensuing struggle leaves him with a blow to his head, but he makes his three rounds count.

Latif goes down from a headshot, and Mahmood is still alive.

That's two objectives accomplished. 

Now the rest. Find Scott. Stop the explosion.

 

*

 

It's already kicked off by the time Michael makes it onto the floor. All hell is breaking loose, the doors have been blown, and there's gunfire coming from all quarters. In the midst of the chaos it looks like Scott is 90 percent done with what Michael got there to do. The trigger grip for the bomb is sitting abandoned across the tiles and the wires to the explosive's main mechanism have been disconnected.

The primary terrorist on the lobby floor has a bullet in his chest, but as Michael clocks him through the smoke, the man begins reaching up, cutting the last tether keeping the bomb from dropping, even as Scott tries to get to him first.

Michael's running before he can think. Then he's catching and sliding and praying he hasn't allowed the nosecone of the bomb to depress against his body as he comes to a halt.

A flood of ensuing of adrenaline creates a whistling sound in his ears that takes a moment to die down. And then that's it. He's on the floor, hugging a bomb. Still alive. In a smoky room full of still-alive people.

There's a hazy, buzzing hum, and then, in the distance, Damien Scott clapping and laughing from where he's also laid out on the ground. "Fuck me," he says, looking at Michael. "Nice catch, buddy. Nice catch."

 

*

 

It takes a bit to make sure the bomb is secured before it's levered away from him, but Michael still makes it to his feet before Damien, who remains stretched out on the floor with his head dropped back against the tile. Michael does a cursory assessment as he makes his way over.

"The leg?" he asks as Damien shifts with a grimace. There's an additional wound on Scott's temple that he didn't have the last time they'd parted—more bruised than bloodied.

"Safe to say I overtaxed it," Damien laughs by way of answer. The laugh turns into a groan just before he tries levering himself up to his elbows. "Muscles are on fucking fire, dude."

Post adrenaline crash, Michael thinks, and crouches, putting a hand to Damien's chest. "Give yourself a minute."

Damien shrugs him off, holding out his hand for Michael to help him stand instead. "Nah, I'm good. Besides—got to get the girl."

"Zubedah is secured."

"The other one," Damien says, and limps over to the lady's washroom. He emerges a moment later with the little girl lifted to his hip, her head tucked down against his shoulder while he rubs her back.

Michael feels a strange relief, for both of them, and stares just a moment too long.

"Let's get out of here, buddy."

"Yeah," Michael answers after a beat. "Yeah. On your six."

 

*

tbc


	5. Part 5

*

Part 5

*

 

With the threat averted, Zubedah protected in custody, and Damien off to hospital, Michael finds himself standing on the steps of the Royal Lotus Hotel alone, feeling bereft somehow. There's a sensation of silence in the lingering chaos surrounding him that makes him feel untethered. From everything. 

Before he knows it, he's reaching for the phone in his pocket and dialing his wife.

She talks, reeling in that connective thread between him and the real world, grounding him until the bedlam he stands in the midst of begins to make more sense.

"Oh God," she says. "Listen to me, ranting about cabinets. I’m sorry, darling, it's probably the last thing you want to hear right now."

"No. No no. It's… I think it's exactly what I need to be hearing right now." He's aware of the subtle break in his own voice and knows he's made her worry. It's not what he intended. It never is.

"Michael," she says gently. "When are you coming home?"

He has no idea how to answer that. He never has. All he knows is that there are things unfinished. That the questions he has about Porter, and Latif, and Damien Scott still have no answers.

It feels imperative, somehow, that he get them, and urgently. Like if he doesn't, then something worse than what they went through today will be just around the corner. Like if he doesn't, that point he stands on, on the tip of that spear, won't be worth anything to anybody, including himself.

Regardless, Section 20 isn't done with this mess yet. Not by a long shot.

"I don't know," he answers honestly, and feels the tether of connective thread between him and her, between him and the real world, reel out a little. "I'll let you know as soon as I can."

 

*

 

He meets up with Kate just inside the crib, after he's showered and shaved and done a cursory review with the medic to get his cuts cleaned up.

"They've patched up Scott's leg," she reports. "He's supposed to stay off it for a few weeks, but should make a full recovery. They were more worried about the head wound and want him to stay in hospital for 24 hours of observation." She looks at her watch. "I give him until four o'clock before he springs himself."

Michael gives him less than that, actually, but he doesn't say it. "Think he'll stick around?" he asks casually.

Kate regards him with a measuring look. "Do you want him to?"

Michael shrugs. "He was useful. Soldiers like him are rare."

It's nothing but the truth. Scott as a soldier is competent, resourceful, and—somewhat surprising to Michael after all the bluster—compassionate.

"Soldiers like _you_ are rare," Kate counters. And when he doesn't respond, she adds with no small measure of curiosity, "It almost sounds like you like him."

"I don't know what to think about him. But I do know he's a good soldier."

"He did get the job done," she agrees. "And well, he has to stick around at least until he gets paid."

Michael starts to nod, then shakes his head. There's a lump in his stomach as he acknowledges vocally to someone other than Scott what he's known all along. "That's not why he's here."

Kate frowns. "Why's he here?"

Michael almost says it aloud, then reins it in. It doesn't stop the answer from itching on his tongue — Damien Scott is here because John Porter wanted him here. There's nothing else for it.

But, until he can talk to Damien about it, Michael will keep that fact to himself.

Fleetingly, Kate looks like she's going to press. In the end, she just squeezes his elbow and leaves him to it.

 

*

 

The debrief with Grant goes somewhat along the same lines. Similar to the conversation with Kate, though with a less personal tone.

Grant is understandably annoyed, as Michael was, that Damien had never actually seen Latif. For a tremulous second, she seems confused that they—that she—could have gotten that intel so fundamentally wrong. Grant's not one to look wrong footed, even at her worst, and it gives Michael an uncomfortable sensation.

Just the same, he leaves what he knows about that supposed fuck up to himself for the time being, just as he did when speaking to Kate. He has no doubt that John Porter was, in fact, the source of that faulty intel. John wanted Damien involved in this, inside the Section, and that sliver of misinformation was the perfect way for him to ensure it'd happen—that they'd go find him and pull him in.

Furthermore, if John had wanted anyone in Section 20 to know, he wouldn't have gone to the trouble to get Damien positioned with the Section in such a roundabout way.

Michael doesn't know why, but he will.

Grant recovers quickly enough and Michael continues, briefing her on his recovery of Zubedah, Latif's death, and the events in the main lobby.

"So he was useful," Grant presses, looking up from the folders in front of her. One of which is the file of Damien Scott.

"Instrumental, ma'am."

She watches Michael's neutral face and then nods, looking unexpectedly pleased. "And if you had to work with him again?"

"He's a damn good soldier," he answers bluntly. "Ma'am."

She nods, accepting that there really isn't any requirement to add more to that statement. "Sargent, this has been quite enlightening," she concludes. "Thank you."

"Colonel," he acknowledges, and stands, already hearing Scott's approach from across the crib. He glances at his watch and tries not to be too satisfied with his own assessment of Scott's arrival time, as well as not too worried that there is something about Scott's character that makes him intuitive for Michael to understand.

"Your turn," he says as he and Scott pass each other.

"Yeah, thanks for warming the seat, buddy." Scott is carrying a folder with him towards Grant's desk.

Michael has three guesses as to what is actually in it.

 

*

 

Michael is talking to Sinclair when Damien strolls up to him, showing about as much deference to his leg wound as Michael expects. He suspects a strong local anesthetic is currently hiding the limp.

"I'm in, buddy," Scott says, looking pleased with himself.

Michael straightens. "Well, well. Wonders never cease."

"You're just jealous 'cause she wants me," Damien teases weakly, but doesn't press the banter. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink."

"Deal," agrees Michael. "I need to talk to you about something first, though."

"What's that?" Damien starts to ask.

They're interrupted before Michael can answer.

"Stonebridge, Scott," Richmond cuts in, calling them over to her computer screen. "This is the man from the hotel, isn't it? The man that we think is Latif?"

"That's right," Stonebridge agrees in tandem with Damien's, "Yeah."

"According to the GCHQ database, this man is Abasi Sawalha. He's the leader of an obscure Yemeni terror group thought to be sympathetic to Latif."

 _Shit_ , Michael thinks. He'd really wanted to call this day a win.

 

*

tbc


	6. Part 6

*

Part 6

*

 

He and Damien kit up for what becomes a sort of unofficial, urgent, first test of their now official partnership. They're halfway to the residence of Major Jamal Ashkani when it occurs to Michael that, with the wound in his leg, Damien probably shouldn't even be there. 

"Shut the fuck up, I'm fine," Damien says without looking at Michael when he brings it up.

Michael drops it, understanding how he himself would feel if the roles were reversed. And he drops it, because Damien Scott is one with whom you pick your battles. Michael can work with that.

 

*

 

Their convergence on Ashkani's flat turns out to be low conflict. They face no opposition, and their primary find is the actual Major Ashkani's body in the bathtub. 

It's little consolation to realize that they all now know what Porter knew. They all now know what the real Latif looks like.

"Fuck," Damien says, subdued, looking at Michael and then looking at the ground. "Fuck."

 

*

 

Zubedah's body is discovered less than an hour later.

She'd trusted them, Michael thinks distantly. She'd trusted him.

Michael isn't sure it matters how much he'd believed he was delivering her to safety. The end result had still been betrayal.

 

*

 

"Learn from this," commands Colonel Grant when they've all retreated back to the crib. Slowly, she presses photos of Latif down before them. Photos of Latif. Of Zubedah. Of the real Major Ashkani. Of surveillance they should have picked up on. Small clues they'd missed.

"Latif outmaneuvered us all," she says with restrained anger. "I brought him here, into the crib. And delivered Mahmood right to him. Remember it. His _victory_. It will not happen again. It will _not_ happen again."

Michael stares at the photos, feeling the same guilt that is evident in Colonel Grant's words and demeanor.

In the end, he is the last to step away from the table of photos. Even then, he can't get his mind to stop turning. To stop replaying the events of the day. Or of the last few days.

_Remember it,_ Grant had said _. His victory._

Michael can't help but think Latif's victory had come long before now. His victory had come when he'd so thoroughly covered his tracks that he left no contacts able to betray him. His victory had come by being ten steps ahead of them at every turn—by having people willing enough to die in his place and on his order.

Latif's victory had come when he'd ordered the execution of John Porter, and had the foresight to switch Porter's location before Section 20 could stop it.

They should have been able to stop it.

Instead, they'd lost a good soldier in the raid, and left John Porter dangling out on a thread with nothing to reel him in.

The implications twist and disassemble in Michael's brain, and he's back to feeling stretched out on a string. Disconnected. Suspicious. Death is unavoidable in their line of work, but…

But…

Limping up behind him, Damien grips a hand to his shoulder, absently providing a point of contact—a tether—pulling Michael from his reverie and back to solid ground. It's a brief moment, all in all. Damien loosens the grip almost instantly, clapping warmly at Michael's back before walking onward without saying anything. Moving off and away to continue his exit, out of the crib.

Michael watches him leave. Watches the stiff slope to his shoulders and the steadily increasing limp. 

They still need to talk, Michael thinks numbly, but…

Later, he decides dully. Later.

 

*

 

Eventually Michael makes his own way to the exit, his movements deliberate and calm despite the violence running vibrantly beneath the membrane of his skin. He feels it pulsing with need. To hit, to run, to fight. 

Kate taps him, touching his bicep when he gets outside. "You should get some sleep," she says directly, running her hand down to his wrist. She pauses, then adds, " _we_ should get some sleep."

He takes a deep breath, pushing the aggressive sensations under his skin to some deeper space. The night feels clear despite the mugginess. The city is loud and vibrant, but it feels like something apart from him, especially at this hour, and…

Maybe, he thinks. Maybe he just doesn't want to be alone.

Exhaling, he lets his hand squeeze hers, and against his better judgment, follows her to her room.

 

*

 

Sleep is a long time coming. And when it does come, it doesn't come well. His dreams are filled with Porter's execution. With the voices of Section 20. And Damien Scott.

He awakes on a gasp, hearing the gunshot that blasted through John's head echo into his own mind. The morning light is bleeding through the window, shining brightly across his face. He closes his eyes against it, tensing himself while the rest of the room comes back to him, and he finally remembers his location.

Behind him, he hears Kate roll onto her side.

The guilt he feels at having done this is more pronounced this time, adding its own ache to the soreness in his muscles, his entire body protesting the events of the previous day.

He rolls his neck absently, trying to loosen the tension in his back when Kate sits up behind him, arm warmly circling his shoulders. It's soft and pleasant but he still feels just that little bit hollow.

"You going somewhere?" she asks. 

"Yeah," he tells her. Because there's no way he can stay. Besides, he has answers to find, and he's put that off far too long as it is.

"Why? We still have time."

She's warm and familiar, and vibrant in every way, but, he pulls away. He hates that he's done this—to her, to himself, to Kerry. This isn't who any of them are supposed to be. "We can't do this anymore," he tells her.

"Michael, we've spoken about this."

"I know," he says. "But Kerry and I are trying—"

Kate makes a rejecting sound. Michael doesn't heed it. In another life, maybe it should have been Kate instead of Kerry, but he can't justify the erratic confusion that creates for him anymore. It isn't who he is. It isn't who any of them are. More importantly, it isn't what either Kate nor Kerry deserve.

He wants to tell himself he needed it last night, the connection and contact, and maybe he did, but… the reeled-out sensation is only increasing by degrees.

"We both need to just stop," he tells her.

Kate looks at him, nothing accusing in her expression, but a challenge just the same. "You sure you can?" 

Michael doesn't answer. He's not sure of a lot of things anymore. But he needs to find that center, that foundation that doesn't make him wake up feeling he's gone more backwards than forwards. 

"Michael," she says as he gets to the door.

He pauses only for a moment.

When he moves, taking step after step down the hallway, he hopes to hell he'll keep going.

 

*

tbc


	7. Part 7

*

Part 7

*

 

It's late morning by the time Michael is approaching the Royal Lotus Hotel. 

Damien, as asked, is waiting for him, sitting at the base of the statue on the opposite side of the hotel plaza. His legs are stretched in front of him and his back is against the wall.

The position seems metaphorical as much as literal. Damien looks solitary. And he looks serious. A wary soldier several degrees removed from the man Michael had met in Malaysia, no matter the coating he wears on his surface. 

Clocking Michael coming towards him, Damien stands awkwardly, off balance because of his leg. Michael knows from experience how much worse an injury can feel the day after the adrenaline has abandoned it for good. But Scott manages, demeanor unconcerned as Michael draws abreast of him, setting down his carryall.

"Hey, buddy," Damien greets, drawing the sunglasses off his face.

"Hi," Michael replies, straightening up and removing his own sunglasses as they face each other.

"So… what are we doing back here?" Damien looks across the plaza at the hotel, still barricaded by tape and police presence. He shakes his head. "Like to rub salt in the wound?"

Michael is direct. "I wanted to talk to you outside the crib."

Damien squints slightly. "What about?"

"John Porter." He pauses after saying it, watching for a reaction, as has become his habit with Damien, looking for clues in the expressions on his face. Damien doesn't look surprised, but he doesn't look comfortable either. More like he's been waiting for this, just not looking forward to it.

"He could have coded that message a dozen different ways Section 20 could have recognized," Michael continues. "But he didn't, did he? He used a code only one other person in the world knew about, and that was you."

Damien bows his head. When he lifts it again, he's staring off towards the hotel rather than at Michael, his brow furrowed.

"Why?" Michael presses. "Porter wanted you inside the Section, but I'm fucked if I know why."

Damien does look at him then, squarely. "Yes you do," he says, holding the eye contact.

It gives Michael pause, and his mind rolls backwards, dragging up the memory of Porter's execution. The shouts. The dread. The deliberate steadiness on John's face and in his words.

_… Sad fucking pricks!_

Michael doesn't want to acknowledge the answer that immediately shows up on his tongue. The answer he's been thinking about for days now.

But he has to say it.

"Porter didn't trust Section 20."

Damien glances away, lifting a cigarette to his mouth and blowing a stream of smoke into the air before meeting Michael's eyes again. "Got it in one, buddy."

Michael shakes his head. "I can't believe that."

"Come on," Damien presses, a little impatiently, proceeding to point out what Michael already knows while adding another layer on top of it. "You and Kate had John's position in Lahore, right?"

Michael listens, but jerks his head to the side as memories of that night automatically flood his brain.

 _'Bring me Latif's head on a plate,'_ Grant had said, just before they'd moved in on the target location. Just before they'd taken fire and their most junior soldier had been shot in the neck.

Damien doesn't let up. "Only Latif moved just before you got there. How did he know?"

"This is insane," Michael rejects, rounding away. It's one thing to acknowledge that John hadn't trusted the Section. It's another to accept that he'd been deliberately setup to be executed. That maybe none of them had had the back up they'd been meant to have that night. That maybe they'd been betrayed by someone on their own team.

Grant. Sinclair. Kate. A dozen other names flash through Michael's brain. He relies on these people. John had relied on them too.

"Whoever sold John out has eyes on Section 20—" Damien persists, leaving no space for Michael to miss the point.

"No," he denies regardless. There's no way. Because Grant. Sinclair. _Kate_. He _can't…_

But Damien won't stop talking.

"—or someone connected to Section 20."

"No."

"Either way, it works out to the same thing."

"No!"

Michael replays the moment his team had been hit trying to get to John. The moment they'd crossed ground to Porter's location only to walk into an ambush that left Kyle gasping on the ground with Kate trying to stem the rush of blood. They'd had the coordinates. John should have been there.

It leaves Michael feeling disconnected. Suspicious. Stretched out on a string.

If they'd been sent purposely into an ambush…

If John and Kyle's deaths had been avoidable…

He rounds on Damien without realizing it, shooting his anger in the wrong direction. "We lost a good man that night!"

Damien doesn't seem fazed. Instead, he looks compassionate, letting Michael get it out of his system.

Reining back to control the surge of adrenaline under his skin, Michael turns away, John's execution reappearing in his mind as another truth creeps out of the abyss. "Fuck," he says to the air, deliberately working to slow his breathing. "Latif knew John's name."

"Think John would have given that up?"

"No," Michael admits. _Fuck._

Fuck.

Facing Damien, he takes another step. "There's something more. You didn't beg Grant for a job just to get back to soldiering, did you?"

Damien doesn't even pretend to dance around the truth, setting all his cards on the table like he needs to lay them out, for both of them. "Zubedah told me about a plot to plant WMDs in Iraq. John knew whoever set him up, the WMDs, Latif, Mahmood, Project Dawn. The whole fucking conspiracy somehow connects back with what happened to me in Iraq."

"Hmn," Michael exhales, watching the darkening bent in Damien's eyes. There is nothing neutral or hidden in his expression this time. He looks angry, and determined, and like a man standing on the edge.

If any of this is true—and Michael can't deny what's in front of him, no matter how insane he wants it to be—then…

Then the reality is that Damien is already standing off the map.

Porter had been killed for this, and it isn't difficult to imagine Damien as the next to get marked. Particularly if the wrong people figure out why he's really here.

Michael's not sure he can keep that from happening without following Damien into the abyss. But someone has to, and if he can do for Damien what he couldn’t for Porter, then he will.

"You don't want to prove all this just to end up with a bullet in your brain, do you?"

Scott breaks off his gaze, backing away from Michael's expectant expression. "Not really, no," he says, taking another drag on his cigarette. Casual as his tone is, the body language tells Michael that Scott knows it's likely—that the chances of him following John's lead on that front are rather high.

"Sounds like you need someone to watch your back, mate," Michael finally says, looking Damien in the eye. It's an offer. As sincere a one as Michael has ever made.

Damien exhales, releasing another breath of smoke, then picks it up, offering back something equally true. "So do you, buddy. So do you."

Michael meets his eye. There's something solid in the way he says it. In the way he extends it like a pact.

Grant. Sinclair. Kate. Michael should find it ironic that the revelation he has in the midst of all this is that Damien Scott is probably the one person in the mix that he can absolutely trust.

"Come on," Damien says, gripping his bicep, as though to seal the deal. It feels grounding, and familiar, reeling Michael in and connecting him to a something solid, like a tether. All in all, it feels like the most honest connection he's had in a long time.

Picking up his kit, it feels easy, falling into step with Damien, moving off towards the hotel and the street. 

He still isn't sure what to think about Damien Scott, but he knows he's a good soldier, and a friend, and Michael has to believe it will make a difference, having him at his back.

He can't picture it any other way.

 

_* Fin *_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note: I always thought it was interesting, and a good storytelling choice, that throughout these two episodes, Damien continually refers to Michael as "bud" or "buddy" but Michael doesn't reciprocate the sentiment by calling Damien "mate" until that very last conversation. I want to hope it was very deliberate on the part of the writers or the production team. For me it very much solidifies Michael's mindset and where he's come to with Damien by the end. Love it.

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, my thanks for giving this a read. :)


End file.
